It Only Took A Redhead And A Pair of Leather Pants
by SoulKinkTwins
Summary: Full, M version. What does it take to snap John's control? Maybe a modeling job will do it...


I'M GOING TO SAY THIS ONCE. PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UPSET BY EXPLICIT SEXUAL SENARIOS. I LEAVE AGE TO YOUR DISCRETION, BUT I WILL NOT TOLERATE ATTACKS BY PEOPLE WHO JUST DON'T LIKE SEX SCENES. THIS FIC CONTAINS EXPLICIT M/M (YES, THAT MEANS GAY) SEX. DON'T LIKE? PLEASE DON'T READ, CHECK OUT ONE OF MY T RATED FICS INSTEAD. THANK YOU.

A/N Oh good Lord, how am I supposed to explain this one? There is a wonderful video on YouTube of all the Sherlock men called "The Men of Sherlock Are Too Sexy" which I highly recommend…and there is this repeating motif of modeling. And so my John muse decided that he very, very much wanted to see his Sherlock on a catwalk because it's not like he isn't graceful enough. And so this is the result of one melting fangirl mess of an author listening to an incredibly Sherlocksexual muse. Enjoy!

Now this? This is something you don't see every day, even while living and adventuring with one Sherlock Holmes. Heads in fridges, fingers on trays, and smudges of something that looks rather like melted marrow on the kitchen table? Sure. Skulls on mantles, test tubes on favourite armchairs and dried bugs inside speakers? Unfortunately. But certain mad genii walking—no, no, strutting—around the room with books stacked on their heads? No, this is new, even coming from Sherlock.

(And it really should bother him more that he's definitely appreciating what that strut does for Sherlock's…assets. For someone as skinny as Sherlock, it's really quite-)

That train of thought is stopped by a wry cough from the aforementioned, who, without turning around or losing the books, has figured out exactly where John's eyes are, thank you very much.

"Did you get the milk?"

The benign question shocks John out of the embarrassment-fueled inability to speak, thankfully, as he would in fact like to know what the hell is going on. A question which he repeats to Sherlock in a much quieter and less…growly tone.

"Isn't it obvious? We have a case!"

And that is how one John Watson ended up in a crowd of immaculately well dressed women in a front row seat at London Fashion Week watching his best friend, colleague, and flat mate positively _prowl_ down the catwalk. John's brain definitely does not short circuit. Not at all.

But then again, Sherlock is wearing leather trousers. And a nearly-sheer white shirt which honestly highlights more than it covers. And, judging by the intrigued murmurs around him, he's not alone in finding Sherlock's outfit quite…intriguing.

Then he poses, hand on hip, and turns to go back down the catwalk. And John Watson wonders if it's normal to blank out a little bit while watching fashion shows.

There's a party afterward, with all of the models serving drinks and making rounds to show off the clothes. And of course, Sherlock is mobbed with admirers. John grabs a shot of whiskey from a passing redhead (and why he doesn't spare her more than a glance is left unanswered because really there are other things to be focusing on right now), because for some reason he feels like he's going to need something strong to get through the rest of this gala with sanity intact.

And then he realizes that nothing is going to do that. And that happens about the same time as two other things. The shot glass in his hand shattering as it drops to the floor. And the same buxom redhead who gave it to him wrapping herself around Sherlock from the back to offer the people in front of him a drink, her free hand trailing down his chest and stomach.

John sees red. In that moment, he simultaneously says a resounding "fuck off" to years of insisting that in order to be attracted to a male he has to be gay, decides to ignore all the bullshit about Sherlock being "married to his work" and gives into the deep, primal urge screaming that Sherlock is his and his alone and that there are a large amount of people in this room who apparently need notice of that fact (after all, it's not like Sherlock has removed her arms from him. Or her shoulders.)

Getting Sherlock's attention is easy. After all, there's one thing that he never ignores.

Sherlock glances down as his phone goes off. Extracting himself from Victoria proves a slightly difficult task, but in the end she pouts and lets him go, leaving him free to balance the drinks tray on one hand and grab his phone from its thigh sheath with the other.

_Changing room. Now. I need help.  
>-JW<em>

Sherlock shoves the drinks tray in Victoria's general direction, not really caring if she actually catches it or not. He's already halfway down the hallway when she starts shouting at him, asking where he's going. Not that he hears her. The only thought in his mind is _—what!_

The last bit being when he reaches the changing rooms, only to find a whole and healthy John locking the door closed behind him.

This whole door locking business is leaving him rather close to Sherlock, actually, with a strange look in his eyes that makes Sherlock shiver a little, involuntarily, a rare thing to be sure, and although he's frantically searching John's face he can't quite seem to deduce what exactly is going on and—

Ohhhhh.

John grins at Sherlock's reaction—he can tell from the younger man's face that his brain just completely blanked, and if he's honest the fact that he, John Watson, managed to do that is turning him on more than a little. He always knew Sherlock had a sensitive neck.

The grin turns into a smirk as another nip to Sherlock's pulse point engenders the same gorgeous groan, which continues as he licks and kisses his way up to Sherlock's perfect, cupid's-bow lips. Obligingly, they're already parted for him, and he wastes no time in exploring this new territory, only removing his lips when breathing really becomes necessary, no matter how boring it is.

"John…"

He silences Sherlock by going back to his neck.

"If," kiss "you," lick "really," bite "want me to," nibble, kiss, suck "stop," John pulls away, and Sherlock can't stop the whimper at the loss of sensation, "just say so."

John waits an extremely generous forty-five seconds before deciding to take silence as assent, but just before he can go back to torturing _his_ Sherlock's neck, decorating it until it's incredibly obvious that he. Is. Owned—Sherlock shoves him back against a nearby table and claims his mouth every bit as fiercely as John had claimed his earlier.

Neither of them are ever really sure who started it, but one way or another the buttons on Sherlock's shirt end up opened, as neither of them really wants to break the frantic kisses long enough to pull John's jumper over his head—a problem solved when Sherlock nibbles John's ear and whispers a stern "don't move". John feels cool metal along his back as Sherlock slices the jumper with a pocket knife (and how in the world did he manage to keep that in his pants), pulling it off his front and running his hands over the newly exposed skin, somehow losing the pocket knife before he does so, though John never felt his hands leave.

It's only when John feels cool metal tracing around his nipples that he realizes that his deduction is incorrect. Somehow this only makes everything hotter, and he groans as Sherlock follows the path of the knife with his mouth, laving attention one nipple, then the other and back again, as the knife traces down, down, starts cutting through layers of denim and cotton until the ravages of John's trousers and pants fall to the ground, baring him to Sherlock's hungry gaze. He looks up to try and see what's going on in his Sherlock's face that caused the removal of contact, mind already turning towards the scars marring his shoulder—and his mouth goes dry.

Sherlock has moved from his direct line of sight and arranged himself on one of the reclining makeup chairs. And if he thought the combination of Sherlock and a riding crop was a beautiful contrast, that one day in the morgue, this was….this was…almost orgasmic in itself. Those mile-long legs spread against black leather, the gorgeous contrast with pale skin continuing up his body, making the thatch of dark hair above his, frankly gorgeous, cock look all the more concentrated. John's eyes continue roving up Sherlock's body until he gets to a smirk, a new one (which he will quickly name the 'come and get it' smirk) which he really, really wants to kiss until it melts into the 'O' of a moan. And so he does, practically jumping on Sherlock, knees on either side of his hips pinning him to the chair, upper bodies flush and tongues tangling.

Sherlock starts thrusting his hips up against the older man, desperate for some friction, which feels amazing, but it quickly becomes apparent to John that he didn't think this through very well when Sherlock begins turning over under him, one hand still cradling John's neck. And it's very hard to get his concerns out when all of this squirming is rubbing Sherlock's ass against his erection in a way that is really very distracting.

"Sher….Sherlock…ugh…I didn't…we can't…."

Much to his dismay, Sherlock gracefully slithers out from under him and starts walking back toward the floor where their clothes ended up.

"A good detective always comes prepared, John."

To this day, John still can't figure out how on earth Sherlock managed to fit a bottle of lube and three condoms into those (deliciously) tight leather trousers. Not, of course, that he was capable of any more thought than _ohthankgodyes_ at the original moment, or that he was complaining, but he still would really like to know how Sherlock did it.

Sherlock returned to the chair and once again lay on his stomach beneath John, legs spread shamelessly wide. John takes a deep breath and slicks up three fingers. He's done this before, of course, after all he was both a doctor and in the army, but none of those men were _Sherlock_ and that makes this so incredibly important to do right. He gently pushes one finger against Sherlock's puckered hole—and freezes. He can almost feel the grin of the man beneath him.

"Completely prepared John. Completely prepared. Now take it out and get in me before—"

Sherlock is cut off as John does exactly as he says, removing the butt plug and replacing it with his length before Sherlock can even register the feeling of emptiness. They both groan as John slides in all the way in one long thrust, head nudging Sherlock's prostate before stopping, and resting his head against Sherlock's back.

"Turn over. I want to see your face."

Sherlock obeys without saying a word, for once, and they both whimper a little (though neither will admit it) as the angle changes. Forehead to forehead, John looks down at the unbelievable grey eyes of his lover (and he can say that now, for real), checking to make sure he's okay. And what he sees in those normally closed-off eyes is lust and need so strong it makes his breath catch and something else, something that he's afraid to name for fear of being wrong but he's sure Sherlock can see reflected in his own eyes.

With that assurance, John pulls out and starts a pattern of long, slow thrusts, not wanting this to end too soon. Because it's hard enough to keep from cumming just knowing that it's _Sherlock_ clenching around him and _Sherlock's_ moans reverberating through the room and _Sherlock_ begging, not demanding, really begging for him to go _harder, faster, deeper, more_ and as we all know, the good doctor cannot refuse his Sherlock anything, and so soon he's jackhammering into the gorgeous man below him and when John feels himself nearing the edge he looks down, planning on making sure that his partner is being taken care of because now really isn't the time to discover if Sherlock can come from prostate stimulation alone (and he shudders at the thought that there will be time for that, many more times) and sees Sherlock's long fingers wrapped around his own cock, and the sight is so unbelievably gorgeous that he nearly blows right there, but he wants, he needs to feel Sherlock come around him, so he holds on, frantically reciting medical conditions in his head.

And then, simultaneously, he feels Sherlock start contracting around him and feels warm stickiness on his stomach (a surprisingly erotic feeling, all things considered, though it could just be the knowledge that it's _Sherlock_ marking him) and he simply can't hold on any longer, burying his scream of release in Sherlock's shoulder before biting it viciously, leaving a bright red mark that would be impossible not to see through that silly excuse for a shirt Sherlock was wearing earlier. He collapses against, waiting for his breath to return, only to promptly slide down and out of the chair, landing on the floor with an undignified thump.

This whole 'catching his breath' thing is a lot easier when Sherlock isn't laughing like a lunatic, causing him to laugh in response, which just makes the whole thing spiral out of control. There are still a few stray chuckles when the couple starts making their way towards being dressed, exchanging languid kisses all the way. This…whatever it is will need to be discussed eventually, they know, but true to form they ignore it for now and settle for the knowledge that whatever it is, neither appears to think it a one time thing.

This blessed peace lasts until John finds what remains of his clothes.

"Oh shit, SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock casts one look at John's things then raises one eyebrow, sliding into what John has termed the "do you really want to be that stupid" face.

"What?"

The Look continues.

"Seriously Sherlock, what!"

Then John realizes. Fashion show. Designed to show off clothes.

In the end, the men head home in a way that gains them quite a few wolf whistles, Sherlock in leather trousers and a see through shirt showing off several impressive hickeys, scratch marks, and assorted bruises, and John in a pair of tight (tight tight) skinny jeans and a blazer. An unbuttoned blazer.

The unfairness in the number of wounds between the two of them was quickly rectified as soon as they arrived in 221B Baker Street. After all, in an unfair world, one had to rectify these things as one could.

And John slept, wrapped around him that night, Sherlock Holmes allowed himself a secret smile.

"Case closed," he muttered to no-one "and experimental success rate of one hundred percent over three trials in ten hours."

A/N I want to thank my amazing beta right now. She goes by LittleMissMollah, and she is the one who convinced me that it was okay to make this fic smutty. So go on and give her some love. She has a really amazing story which is just so, so heartbreaking called Just A Moment Too Late which she was working on while I worked on this, and it's so worth a read. I love you to pieces Molls! And if I owned Sherlock (which I don't), you would have a Sherlock covered in ice cream and chocolate syrup with a whip at your doorstep right now!


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